of the day, the
direction of the wind and under it write out, "I have a stomach ache
from eating peaches."

The Journal bristled with innocuous informations. An acquaintance of the
period, interested in Mallare's work as an artist, smiled and commented,
"These are, no doubt, symbols. A psychological code into which you have
translated great inner moments."

Mallare answered, "On the contrary. They are the only thoughts I have
had in which I could detect no reason. It has amused me to put down with
great care the few banalities which have normalized my days. They are
very precious to me, although they have no value in themselves.

"It is the ability to think such absurdities as you have read that has
kept me from suicide. The will to live is no more than the hypnotism of
banalities. We keep alive only by maintaining, despite our intelligence,
an enthusiasm for things which are of no consequence or interest to us.

"That I saw a man with a red face aroused in me a gentle curiosity
lacking in words or emotion. The desire to live is compounded of an
infinity of such gentle curiosities which remain entirely outside of
reason. This never-satisfied and almost non-existent curiosity we have
toward things, masquerades under the intimidating guise of the law of
self-preservation. Man is at the mercy of life since, his intelligence
perceiving its monotony and absurdity, he still clings to it, fascinated
by the accumulated rhythm of faces, impressions, and events which he
despises.

"It is a form of hypnosis, and these words I have written in my Journal
are the absurdities by which life seduced me from abandoning it. I am
grateful to them and have therefore preserved them carefully."

The history of Mallare's madness, however, is to be found in this
Journal. There are two empty pages that stare significantly. The empty
pages are a lapse. It was during this lapse that Mallare smiled with
interest at the spectacle of his disintegration. There follows, then, a
sudden excited outburst, undated. In it the beginnings of his madness
pirouette like tentative dancers.

"Perhaps the greatest miracle is that which enables man to tolerate
life," the passage starts, "which enables him to embrace its illusions
and translate its monstrous incoherence into delightful, edifying
patterns. It is the miracle of sanity. To stand unquestioning before
mysteries, to remain an undisturbed part of chaos, ah! what an
adjustment! Content and even ela